


Tender Whisperings

by RyMagnatar



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Cuddling, M/M, an old idea from an old rp, postgame somehow, really just dont ask
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-16
Updated: 2013-01-16
Packaged: 2017-11-25 17:24:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/641289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RyMagnatar/pseuds/RyMagnatar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(i have no idea how to explain this)</p><p>Gamzee gives Caliborn some tender whisperings, and pattings, and such.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tender Whisperings

”What the fuck is this.” 

The little green dude is, as far as you can tell, constantly this aggressive and angry. He was Karkat on a bad day, Solluxander on a worse one and Eridan on the worst all in one. The other’s wont give him the time of day, let alone anything less than prickling shell of insults to get him away. But you have a whispering in your head, have had it since the end of everything and beginning of everything else, and it’s that soft sound that gives you pause.

You grin to the kid before you, because fuck it all, he’s probably just as much of a kid as you are anyway, and beckon to him, “It’s a pile of horns, motherfucker. What do you say about joining a motherfucker for a while?”

“No.” He spits out the word right after you finish speaking. “That is ridiculous and disgusting. I am  _leaving_.” 

You know better than to reach out to him- you’ve seen how he flipped his shit at Nepeta over a pounce attack- and so you just sit up and say, “I’m disappointed in you.”

That makes him freeze. He twists around and at first you think he’ll snarl but he’s relatively good at keeping his cool and so instead he simply asks, “Why?”

You lean back, still grinning, closing your eyes just a bit. “I didn’t think a badass motherfucker like you would just back the fuck up from a challenge.”

“Challenge?” He narrows his eyes.

You smile, all saccharine sweet and non-threatening. You lay back, closing your eyes and putting your hands behind your head. “You heard a motherfucker.”

The silence stretches on for a while, but his footsteps come eventually, quick and sharp on the floor. Then there are honks as he joins you on the pile. You open an eye, turning slightly to watch him sit stiffly on the pile. 

“Not like that, motherfucker, you’ve got to lay back a little. Let out a little sigh as you sink right into those horns.” You show him by sighing and sinking farther into the horns. They let out strangled honks beneath you. 

He mumbles something under his breath and lays back, giving an exaggerated sigh. After some silence he admits, “The complaints about your pile here have been many but they seem to be very wrong.” A little more silence and then, “Certainly better than other piles I have had the misfortune of coming across.”

You chuckle and shift, rolling onto your side so you can look at him better, “That is something I can get behind and agree with, motherfucker.” 

“Of course you can and will agree with me.” He nods his head and folds his arms stiffly over his chest.

“Isn’t any reason for me not to be motherfucking agreeable with such righteous noise?” His eyes narrow and he quickly turns his head over to stare at you.

“Righteous?”

“You motherfucking heard me,” you shift one hand to lay on the horns in front of your chest. “Righteous sounds coming out of your mouth and floating right over here into my auditory channels. Everything sounds motherfucking right to me.”

He opens his mouth and then closes it again with a click. He scowls at you and his arms tighten over his chest. 

“Now that’s not any motherfucking way to be…” You reach out and watch as his eyes widen the closer your hand gets. You put your hand gently over his wrist and pull, “You’re too motherfucking tense there, bro, you’re supposed to be relaxing up on a pile. Unfold your arms and let them down at your sides.”

“This is completely idiotic.” But he listens to you. He puts his hands to either side, still laying stiffly. You pet his hand very gently and he huffs angrily. It’s like a very snippy Karkat, adorable in a way but even more pitiful than your bro could ever be. 

“Just motherfucking relax there, bro,” you keep patting his hand until he finally relaxes, still frowning like nothing you’ve ever seen. When he seems calmer, you scoot a little closer, the horns announcing your movement as you go.

He jerks a little, “What are you doing?”

“Getting comfortable,” you say smoothly, reaching across him to pat his other hand. 

“This is-“ 

“Shhh,” you murmur softly, running your hand gently down his arm and patting his hand. “Shhh, don’t be motherfucking talking now. Piles are all about feeling shit, so just rest a bit and feel.” 

“N-” any arguments to the contrary are silenced when you slide your hand into his. 

They’re strange little things. Kind of pointy and hard, harder even than your own. You didn’t think an angel would have such dangerous feeling hands. You smile as you lift his hand up, completely disregarding the shocked and flushed expression he takes as you bring his hand close to your face. You look over his individual digits and smile a little more. Without looking up to his face, you lean your head forward and brush your lips across the knuckle.

He pulls his hand out of yours so fast his claws cut along your palm and he scrambles to sit up. All the while he’s shouting, “Now what do you fucking think that you are doing!? That is downright disgusting! Keep your disgusting hands off of me!” 

You reach out, lazy and broadly, and catch up his other hand instead. He freezes, half out of the pile already, and you kiss the first knuckle on his smallest finger. Then you look up at him and smile, “Calm down motherfucker, nothing bad happens on the motherfucking horn pile here. Just sit back down and relax again.”

That expression he gives you, horrified, disgusted, affronted, and in general pissed the fuck off, means nothing because you can see just a glimmer in the back of his gaze of  _what the fuck is he doing, does he know what he’s doing???_  And you do, of course you do. You may have fried your think pan, drilled a hole right through your motherfucking thoughts and into the center of nothing and everything, but you understand one thing. You understand affection. And know the face of something or someone that doesn’t get enough. 

You smile and kiss another finger and murmur, “Ain’t no motherfucker going to walk in here and see a motherfucking thing. Just up and relax for one second, maybe two. I promise it’s a miracle you don’t want to motherfucking pass up.”

“Well maybe-“

You close your eyes again, kissing a third finger.

“JUST STOP THAT ALREADY!” He shouts again, pulling his hand away. He turns his back to you, hands folded together and out of your reach. You move closer and smile a little to yourself as you drape an arm across him and he turns as rigid as rock. You nuzzle your cheek against his shoulder and he first tenses more, then melts a little and finally reaches back with his elbow to try and push you back. 

You stop that with a little kiss to his shoulder.

He shudders and pulls tightly in on himself again. “Filthy,” he’s muttering under his breath, along with half a dozen other insults and curses. You ignore it in favor of another kiss and then to rest your forehead against the back of his head. Your breath rolls over his neck, you know it, and can feel the way it makes him shudder the first time and cringe the second and then relax a little.

Smiling, you put your hand over his and then mumble, “There it is, you motherfucking got this handled.”

“Of course.” He huffs. His voice doesn’t shake. You are impressed. “How dare you doubt my ability to handle such horrible situations like this?”

You chuckle softly and murmur, “Motherfucking right again. I won’t dare think such a thing as that bit of motherfucking wordage ever again.”

“That doesn’t even make any sense.”

You squeeze his hands gently and he goes quiet again. Letting your eyes close, you yawn slightly, “Doesn’t have to. That’s what makes this a miracle.”

“Miracle.” He repeats. “Nonsense!”

“Nah, motherfucker. You’ve got to believe in the miracles. I know I do, considering I’m up and holding one right the motherfuck now.” 

That makes him stop breathing and whisper in a soft voice, “What? Why?”

You shift your head a bit and use your arm to pull him closer, a mere inch or two from his back, “I know the motherfucking truth there, bro. It isn’t every motherfucking day that I hold an angel in my arms- and even if I was so motherfucking gifted by the messiahs then every day would be a miracle.”

“Oh.” He goes a thoughtful kind of quiet and you smile. You fix your other arm as a pillow for your head and don’t think too much about the way your fingers run over his until his hand opens and you slide yours into it again. He turns your hand around and traces fingers over the cuts. “Sorry.” Such a soft word, you would have missed it if you were a half second closer to dazed thoughts. 

“Not a motherfucking problem.”

He leans his shoulder back so it rests against your chest and you see his cheeks are slightly flushed. He’s staring down at your hands and you can see just the edge of his expression, confused but fond. Perfect.

You let your eyes close again and begin to doze, just a little. Maybe next time you’ll get a little closer, touch a little longer, but for now you have to get your little green motherfucker used to you, but by motherfucking bit. You weren’t worried about running out of time. You heard a distant whispering that said there was plenty of time, plenty of motherfucking time to get where you were going….

even if you were somehow already there. 


End file.
